


breaks in the surface

by salienne



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salienne/pseuds/salienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-The Way of the Warrior (I & II). After the battle for the Station, Garak visits the infirmary. A character study of Garak and what recent events might mean for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breaks in the surface

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** Post- _The Way of the Warrior (I & II)_, wherein the Klingons invade Cardassia and Deep Space Nine. On the Station, Garak and Dukat defend the Cardassian council members side-by-side.  
>  **Beta:** [](http://wemblee.livejournal.com/profile)[**wemblee**](http://wemblee.livejournal.com/) <3  
> 

The infirmary is filled with bodies—most, if not all of them, still alive. Garak is unsure why he came. To treat the lacerations on his face and what feels like a rebroken rib, certainly, but that can wait. What he should be doing, what he would _like_ to be doing, is speaking to the members of the new civilian Council. A member of the Obsidian Order, and particularly an exiled member of the Obsidian Order, would prove useful to a government unused to governing. The Order had always been careful to avoid taking sides, after all, even as it served those currently in charge. Well, served Cardassia.

Unfortunately, with Dukat there, and the room locked down, and given his reputation...

He had tried.

Garak gasps, sitting down on a chair against the wall and pressing a hand to the side of his chest. He drops it immediately. Lifting his arm, he realizes, was not the best idea. Two ribs then. Perhaps it is a good thing he came after all.

Around him it is loud, and it is messy. The room is warmer than usual, charged with the dry static of medical instruments and old phaser fire. A woman cries out on a gurney. The gash on her leg is deep and, judging by the blood dripping to the floor, well beyond the help of a simple dermal regenerator. A member of the medical staff does his best to hold the woman down as another injects her with a nanospray. Beside him, a security officer with a head wound argues with a Bajoran civilian, somewhere else a woman holds an engineer's arm and sobs, and the steady and ignorant chatter about what's just happened—to the Station, to the Federation, to Cardassia—makes Garak yearn for ear plugs. On several of the gurneys, though less than he might expect, lie unconscious Klingons, blood clumped in their clothing and hair. The rest, he supposes, have been beamed back to their own ships.

He never will understand the Federation need to care for its enemies, particularly when it will bring them so little in return.

A nurse with a PADD in hand walks up to him, running her finger down the list. She stops, spotting him, before taking the tricorder from her waist. “Mr. Garak,” she says. Her tone is short, though familiar, and he supposes that's an accomplishment given that she is Bajoran. Even with the treaty, his people are not well-loved.

“Tell me,” Garak says, as she runs the tricorder down his body, “is Doctor Bashir here?”

She shakes her head. “He's in Ops.”

Garak wonders which officer has been injured, how badly, and what exactly is wrong with the transporter to keep them away. He realizes he's disappointed, even a bit worried, and that's almost darkly amusing given the scale of everything else.

Closing the tricorder, she continues, “You, Mr. Garak, have broken two of your transverse ribs and bruised a third. Congratulations. Tell me, does your ankle hurt?”

He flexes his right foot. “Now that you mention it, yes.”

“You have a sprain.”

“Ah. I wondered why the floor felt so unsteady.”

She makes several notes on the PADD, then slips the pointer back along its side. “Sit here, try not to move too much. Normally we'd give you a bed but...” She motions to the room and he obliges her by surveying this particular form of chaos. By the time he looks back, she's already moved on.

\---

Garak has always been a patient man. He has also been a man skilled at covering up whatever impatience he may feel, long after that patience itself has run out.

It would help, however, to have a book. And a comm link into the Cardassian officials' quarters, or even just a contact on the ship coming to take them home—it wouldn't be ideal, but he could work with that. A bribe, a false name, urgent information about Gul Dukat's sources. He's very good with limited options. He hasn't even been able to get in contact with Tain's old residence—where, last he heard, Mila still lived. Still lives. She must. That's the likeliest of all possibilities, after all.

He doesn't even know which parts of Cardassia were hit, and isn't that something? Him not knowing a thing like that.

Quite purposefully Garak sits up. Broken ribs do make life unpleasant once the adrenaline of fighting has worn off, but that pain has its uses.

On the distant end of the infirmary Julian, finally arrived, has taken charge. He and the other doctors tend to the severely wounded, and Julian barely glances up as he directs the rest of his staff towards those in need of less urgent care or who, after a few minutes of treatment, will be able to free up space. The Klingons are beamed away, many in mid-treatment, but Julian is frazzled for only a few seconds before moving on to Station residents. More patients continue walking in, most with superficial wounds but some limping, some with makeshift slings. Overall the Station got off surprisingly unscathed, but being here in the infirmary makes that feel a little less unfair.

It's another assistant, a human, who approaches Garak this time. She runs a dermal regenerator across his facial wounds before directing him to a bed, and he is not quite able to hold back a grimace when lying down. By the time the pain allows him a look around, Julian stands beside him.

“I'm afraid,” Julian says, scanning him with yet another tricorder, “you're beginning to make this into a habit.”

Garak responds, “Not at all. I would much rather spend my days hemming women's dresses, retiring to my quarters every night knowing that, out there, a young lady finds herself in the height of fashion thanks to my expertise. In fact, I would very much like it if I never had to end up here, again. No offense intended, of course. That is, unless the Klingons plan on habitually invading this Station and my home planet, which is a future I believe the Federation intends to avoid.”

“Not just the Federation, I would imagine.”

“Well I would hope so, doctor. I would certainly hope so.”

Garak lies on the table in silence as Julian runs the ossifier across his chest. He is told again—though he remembers perfectly—that he should remain as still as possible during this procedure. He should keep his breathing shallow, but he should not, under any circumstances, actually hold his breath. Altogether it's not the amazing instrument it's made out to be, the ossifier. A bone healed naturally often becomes stronger at the point of breakage, while one whose healing has been accelerated by such artificial means retains a weak spot vulnerable to future injury. Not that anyone can afford to heal naturally nowadays. Certainly not he, a tailor with a shop that will now be open for years to come, with who knows how many of his own people dead in a distant star system before the Dominion has even taken a real first step into the quadrant.

He doesn't blame himself but he wonders. He wonders about the warning signs they all missed.

It's unlike him, but Garak hardly notices it when Julian lowers the instrument. “Garak, where were you that you received such extensive injuries?”

“The Klingon incursion was thorough.”

“Not that thorough.”

Taking the dermal regenerator, though a thicker one this time—possibly for deep tissue damage—Julian moves onto his ankle, and Garak folds his hands on his stomach to keep himself from fidgeting. Really, he used to be better than this.

“I hear the fight outside of the Cardassian council's quarters got quite heated,” Julian comments.

“Did it?”

Julian simply gives him a look, and Garak nearly rolls his eyes. He was here to see the doctor, he admits that to himself. He knew it from the start. What he hadn't counted on was just how annoying the man could be.

“If you must know, doctor, I felt it was my responsibility to assist in the defense of my people. Particularly given the odds of this particular battle.”

“And did they appreciate it,” Julian asks, “your people?”

“It will be a small miracle if they ever find out.”

Julian frowns at that, and Garak turns his eyes to the ceiling—white, well-lit, without so much as a crack in the paint. There are no breaks in its surface, no hint of the machinery or ducts or quarters beyond. His mind paints the metaphor for him, and he supposes that's something else he's developed during his time here. Sentimentality. The need to cut through his own facade just a little, even as this place, this technology, these conversations, _Julian Bashir_ , fail to fit again and again.

He used to be better than this by far.

Garak runs his fingers along his side, pressing a bit harder than perhaps he should. Some tenderness, but much improved.

Julian says, “Done,” and Garak wastes no time in standing.

“You may want to be careful on that ankle,” Julian says, “for the next day or so.”

“Thank you very much, doctor. I'll let you get back to your work.”

He has made it a grand total of two steps before Julian calls out, “Garak.”

“Really, doctor, I do have a shop to attend to.”

“As lunch tomorrow is probably out of the question, how's dinner tonight?”

Garak doesn't hesitate. “I believe Quark's will still be open tomorrow. Ferrengi waste no opportunity for profit, after all.”

Julian appears confused at that response, only to cover it up quickly with a small smile. He has been learning.

“No,” Julian says, “I suppose they don't. I'll see you tomorrow then, Garak. And get some rest. Doctor's orders.”

Garak nods, and then he turns and walks out of the infirmary. There is no one in his path now. Almost all of the injured have been treated, and, with the exception of the cleaners and engineers engrossed in their work, very few people wander the Promenade. It's really just him. Garak finds himself reminded of the final days of the Occupation—conduits stripped, bodies disposed of, railings thrown to the ground for the bitter joy of it. He stood and watched then, too, before being left behind. Back then, he was simply better at going on with his work.  



End file.
